Captive of Kadar

The cistern had been full once, an underground reservoir of water brought from many kilometres away via aqueduct to supply the Topkapi Palace and surrounding city, where now just a few feet remained, and it was bizarre to think all this, the Medusas’ heads and the column of peacock eyes and tears, had been underwater, hidden away for centuries and then lost for many more when the cistern was forgotten for a time.

She shivered, as if an evil spirit had brushed past her shoulder, a warning, cold and malevolent. And then she turned her gaze to Kadar and the raw desire in his eyes vanquished any thoughts of evil and filled the space where it had been with a heated promise until her body hummed with expectation.

Around her the columns glowed, silent sentinels, rich with the history of the ages, as the flute music from the speakers floated in the air between, haunting and melodic, the drip, drip of water gently echoing in the high-ceilinged space. ‘Thank you for showing me this. It’s beautiful,’ she said.

He touched a hand to her hair, unravelling from the knot she’d tied it in this morning long before their cruise and the sea breeze that had toiled so hard to tug it undone. ‘You made me think of Medusa,’ he said, his touch so electric, her breath jagged in her throat. ‘The way your hair floats around your face.’

‘Be careful,’ she warned, trying to defuse the moment, because in this moment he was so intense, his body almost vibrating with tension before her. ‘Or I might turn you to stone.’

His mouth kicked up at one corner. ‘You already have.’

* * *

The shudder that followed his admission turned her knees weak. She turned away, needing to grab onto the boardwalk’s balustrade for support, momentarily thrown by the his electric words and the power he was giving her. Surely mere lust wasn’t supposed to make your chest tight or make you feel this emotionally charged?

She felt his breath then, soft and warm upon her neck, felt him behind her the way she was finding he liked, felt his impatience, and knew that if they’d been alone he’d have taken her here and now over the balustrade amongst the forest of golden columns and the secrets of the past.

Her breath hitched, as she knew her body would welcome it. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’

‘In that case,’ he said, his voice gruff and strained, and taking her arm as he led her towards the exit, ‘we should go.’

* * *

He wasted no time calling for his car. He wasn’t about to waste time walking.

Not when all he wanted was to bury himself deep inside this woman.

He no sooner had her inside the apartment than he was pulling her into his arms, his mouth hard against hers. Hungry. Impatient. Wanting.

She came willingly, hot and ready, as he’d known she would be. She pushed his coat from his shoulders as he peeled away her jacket. They fought like that, mouths locked together, grappling with garments in their rush to be naked, discarding pieces of clothing in a trail across the floor as they headed inexorably towards the bedroom. Her jeans, his trousers, shucked off, everything abandoned.

And when he got her to the bed, he sat her on the edge, his hands sliding the lace boy leg underwear down her legs as his mouth feasted upon hers, in such a hurry that he almost forgot about protection—again—before he swiped it up.

She took it from him and he let her, breath hissing through his teeth as she held it at his tip with one hand and rolled it down his long hard length with the other. It was by grinding his teeth that he could hold himself together, the mere seconds it took her nimble fingers feeling like for ever.

But finally she was done and he took her hands and he kissed her again where she still sat on the edge of the bed. Kissed her until she was liquid and pliant against his hot mouth.

She leaned back, trying to draw him down on the bed over her.

And he was ready.

He made to flip her over onto her stomach.

She resisted.

And he wanted to be inside her and inside her now but she was tugging on his arms as she fell back onto the bed, pulling him down on top of her.

‘This way,’ she said, angling her hips in encouragement.

‘No,’ he said, and shrugged off her hands, pushing himself to his feet. ‘What are you playing at? Roll over.’

‘Why?’

‘It is better.’

‘For who?’

‘For everyone.’

‘No. I want you this way. I want to see you this time.’

‘No!’

‘Why?’

‘Are you mad? Why do you think?’ He turned then, exposing the full horror of his scars to her again. ‘Do you imagine for one second that you want your hands on this mess? Do you think I want your hands anywhere near it? To feel your revulsion when your fingers connect with this?’